


Chips

by notEstelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Drug Abuse, I want my boios to be happy, Johnlock is unhealthy, M/M, Mrs. Hudson is a saint, Mrs. Hudson is the best character, Other, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Sassy Mrs. Hudson, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 16:18:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notEstelle/pseuds/notEstelle
Summary: Mary's dead and John is gone.Sherlock struggles.





	Chips

Sherlock sat in his chair. The flat had grown even more a mess than when John had first arrived and scoffed at the man's living space. Half-assed attempts at experiments left to do as they please and paper crowding the tables.

It had been only a few days since Mary had died. Since Sherlock broke his promise and lost John forever. Sherlock still couldn't fully process it.

221B had grown a special kind of warmth from John's presence. It mixed fluidly with the cold and messy professionalism Sherlock wrought. When John left the flat, it lost all things warm and cold. Only a husk of numbing messy nothing in his place.

John came and gave Sherlock everything he'd ever dreamed of and the things he'd never dare just to turn around and take it all back along with everything that Sherlock once was.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd rather have never experienced the warmth of another person at all. Alone had protected him all that time ago and Sherlock leaving that protection had resulted in the most wonderful and happy moments of the detective's life as well as the hardest falls of pain and sorrow he'd ever had to face.

Sherlock was staring at John's chair with his hands held under his chin when Mrs. Hudson called, knocking a gentle three knocks in her typical fashion. "Yoohoo, Sherlock!"

The woman barged in without waiting for a response. She was armed with a takeout package.

Sherlock was hopeful for a moment, remembering all the times John and he had taken the time to relax after solving a case with Indian takeout. Far too quickly that hope dwindled as Sherlock saw the imprint of a logo on the top of the container.

'Sweet and Salty Sync.'

Not Indian takeout.

"Oh dear, Sherlock, what a mess you've made. This whole ordeal has absolutely broken you." Mrs. Hudson tittered. The older woman pushed some papers out of the way to make room on the desk John used to use write his blog on.

"Some man in a suit dropped these off for you. Probably another one your brother's lackeys. He really should be more considerate and take the time to drop them off; Lord knows you need more company."

Sherlock stared for a while before a quiet voice in the back of his head vaguely resembling John reminded him that it's polite to reply when being spoken to. "I-" his voice was crackly and broken as he tried to talk. Sherlock cleared his throat, "I'm perfectly alright, Mrs. Hudson. You can tell Mycroft that too, next time he decides to 'send one of his lackeys'."

Mrs. Hudson gasped, "Am I really that obvious?"

"I've told you not to fret. Most people are." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "You'd be far more on guard if his employees were to visit and he'd never pass up an opportunity to revel in my errors."

The face Mrs. Hudson made in return was pinched and full of pity. The older woman grabbed the box and walked over to Sherlock, holding it out. "Chips."

Sherlock grabbed the offering and opened it. Indeed, the box was filled to the brim with chips. "Why?"

Mrs. Hudson's reply was immediate, as though she was expecting Sherlock's skepticism. "You're suicidal. You're allowed chips."

Okay, ow. Sherlock hadn't even been able to wrap his head around it yet. The more he thought about the situation though, the more Sherlock knew it was coming. Unwilling to go down that rabbit hole yet, Sherlock did his very best to think of nothing at all and ate a fry.

^^^

Sherlock knew. There was no doubt in his mind and yet all of his expectations could never compare to the agonizing pain he felt whenever he was reminded of John.

It was particularly hard seeing as though John had decided to practically piss all over the entire apartment with how everything in the flat had been imprinted upon by the doctor. Everything here was Shitty with a capital 'S' and Sherlock needed out. He needed to get away from it all. He needed-

Oh.

^^^

Sherlock hadn't shot up since November of fucking 2013. He hasn't the faintest idea why; it's absolutely wonderful. John definitely wouldn't approve but John no longer was in the picture. No need to restrain one's self.

The whole getting ahold of the drugs was a blur. As hard as Mycroft tries, he could never stop the great Sherlock Holmes from getting what he wants. So long as those things weren't human and John-shaped. Then again, Mycroft took no part in that.

Everything was calm and good. Sherlock thought he may have been a bit tired. He'd rest for a little while.

The door knocks again, without a yoohoo, and Mrs. Hudson leaves the fries in the same spot before the door that she has been for the past two weeks.

^^^

Sherlock hadn't been exactly suicidal since John left. He'd merely been indirectly killing himself with cocaine for the relief from everything it gave. Procrastination at its finest, really. Killing yourself to avoid killing yourself.

When Sherlock woke up in the dead of night, though, when there were barely even sounds coming from the typically busy London streets, all of his stash was missing.

"Wiggins." Sherlock stated, already resigned. Last night the young genius had threatened to stop selling to Sherlock if he didn't slow his pace. The detective should've been expecting this.

Sherlock had other people to go to, of course. Wiggins isn't the only one in such a major city offering. Sherlock tried to stand only to find himself wobbly and back on the floor.

No need to fret, Sherlock could use his phone. If they got there fast enough, then- Sherlock pat his pockets. The man looked around. His phone was nowhere to be seen. Wiggins had probably taken it when he pat down Sherlock of his drugs.

Sherlock stippled his hands beneath his chin and tried to drown his thoughts with the sounds of outside but they were too hushed. He couldn't think about-

John.

Sherlock curled into a ball like a broken child. Fuck.

"He'd rather have anyone but you." Sherlock knows that. John should've been that way from the beginning, like all the others.

Maybe John never liked him. He took longer to leave than the others but he also took every available opportunity to prove he was better than Sherlock, much like Mycroft.

He made sure Sherlock was fed and killed a man for him only a day after meeting the detective even though John knew of Sherlock's drug habits and Sherlock had deduced verbally very personal things about the army doctor.

That was most likely just because of John's high moral standard and wish for adrenaline. Sherlock was a tool to John. A no longer necessary tool.

Everyone hated Sherlock. John hated Sherlock. Sherlock hated himself.

Everything looked fuzzy and wet.

The detective scurried into the restroom.

Inside, he had expected to find his shaving razor but Sherlock had no such luck. Mrs. Hudson had likely taken it a long time ago and Sherlock, having had been growing it out his lame facial hair in laziness, hadn't noticed.

Sherlock threw what was on the bathroom counter on the floor and began shuffling through the drawers. There had to be something in there.

Once again he came up empty. Sherlock moved onto the kitchen.

No one wanted him here. He'd proven his useless with Mary. Honestly, he hadn't the faintest why she would ever leave saving John to Sherlock. All Sherlock had ever seemed to do was hurt John. From making the man depressed for years to being the reason his wife was dead. Sherlock was the worst thing to ever happen to John.

The detective found a small paring knife with a black blade and marble handle. Perfect.

Just as Sherlock began to feel cool metal against his wrist those three gentle knocks came again. "Yoohoo. Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson was quieter than usual, sounding rather subdued and quite tired. Outside was still dark; Sherlock had likely woken her in his frenzy.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" The detective slid the blade across his wrist without breaking skin. He was rather preoccupied at the moment and tapped his foot in impatience.

Sherlock's landlady opened the door gently and walked into the flat. She was once again bearing chips. "Oh, goodness. We really ought to clean this all up." Mrs. Hudson crossed the space in quick strides, swiftly taking the knife and replacing it with the box in his hands. "Far better alternative, isn't it?"

Sherlock stared at the box. "How did you know?"

"Deary, are you aware of how much of a ruckus you were making?"

"Not that!" Sherlock placed down the chips and gestured widely. "This! The chips and everything. How did you know?"

Mrs. Hudson removed everything from two of the seats in the kitchen and sat down, gesturing for Sherlock to follow. At his refusal to comply the woman sighed. "It was bound to happen. You two are so codependent, it's unhealthy."

"Yes, but you didn't do this the first time he left." Sherlock finally sat down, knowing cooperating would make her more willing to share. The detective was feeling rather tired again anyways.

"John was in an absolutely horrid mindset when you faked your death."

Sherlock winced. He knew he hurt John, no need to rub it in. "Yes, I'm well aware-"

"No, you're not. Sherlock, he tried to take his own life." Sherlock ruffled at that. Why would Mycroft have skipped over such an important detail? "You didn't think John was gone forever when you came back. Neither of you truly believed it." Mrs. Hudson wiped hands against her dress and took Sherlock's hand. "If you two can somehow manage to get past the barrier of death than I'm sure you'll get through this."

"Well, technically, I never-"

"Shut up. I was on a roll with my wonderful elderly wisdom." Mrs. Hudson turned over the detective's palm, placing a folded piece of paper in it. She gently curled his fingers around the note. The landlady gave Sherlock's hand a gentle three pats and stood authoritatively. "Read that and get your shit together, Sherlock."

The two hugged and Mrs. Hudson went back to her own flat, likely to go back to sleep. All that was left in the apartment was Sherlock and the note. He unfolded it.

^^^

It was John's suicide note. John's suicide note that was addressed to Sherlock. It spoke of how Sherlock had given John's life life when he was so horribly close to ending it all in the beginning. How Sherlock was the most brilliant man John had ever met and how even though Sherlock was a complete and utter twat for leaving without him, Sherlock would always be John's best friend.

Sherlock cried. He cried and finally got his shit together.

Sherlock lit the fireplace, grabbed his laptop, and got to work. There was an email from codename Love. The detective did owe her a favor.


End file.
